The summer air hung heavy, mirroring the weight in my stomach. At forty-three, pregnant, and facing Meir, who was fifty-nine, I delivered the news, my excitement laced with a tremor of fear. His eyes, those inscrutable depths, held my fate. The relief that washed over me after the termination was sharp, almost painful in its intensity. Relief, yes, but also a searing anger, a betrayal of a different kind.
But the thought of leaving Meir was immediately followed by the stark question: Leah? What would become of my bond with her, my shared world? Who else would understand the nuances of her laughter, the significance of her small triumphs? To whom could I endlessly recount her stories, send snapshots capturing fleeting moments of childhood? Only Meir saw Leah as I did, his eyes lighting up at the mere mention of her name, a silent affirmation of our shared love. Leaving him meant losing a part of Leah, a shared lens through which we viewed her. Leah filled the void of loneliness, yet Meir was the mirror reflecting our family, our ‘us’. It was an unspoken song of love, played out in our quiet moments.
•
Groningen drew me back, not once, but twice after that initial trip. Yet, the window remained a forbidden space, a boundary I couldn’t cross again. I would halt at the street’s edge, a self-imposed limit, and turn away.
Johan’s workplace was no secret. Two unanswered letters were a flimsy barrier. I could find him, materialize in his path, leave him no escape. In this digital age, anonymity is an illusion, especially for the pursued.
My daughter’s husband was a lecturer at the Lancering Theatre Academy, a stark concrete and glass edifice against the perpetually gray sky of the east harbor. Across the street, a café became my observation post. Lancering students, young and vibrant, drifted in and out, gravitating towards the café’s budget-friendly offerings: espresso, soda, pastries. Youth, in its boundless energy, is sometimes startling. A boy, adorned with a nose ring and shocking pink hair, belted out a tune, oblivious to the future’s unfolding complexities. “How nonchalantly the future spreads out its nets,” I mused, “unseen until ensnared.” Three girls, their table littered with empty cups, embraced with effortless joy before departing. Was this Leah’s world now? This carefree exuberance, this assumption of a world ready for the taking? She had been Johan’s student. A seven-year-old online photo, captioned “my teacher” in Dutch, confirmed their connection. Yet, the image of her in this café, laughing freely, carelessly tossing her hair back into a ponytail, felt discordant, alien. Johan, fifteen years her senior, perhaps more, offered her something I couldn’t grasp then, a different kind of song.
When he finally emerged, he was solitary. Tall and lean in a winter jacket, a leather briefcase in hand, he resembled a country doctor from a play. Recognition was instant; photographs had etched his image in my mind, though his height surprised me. My bill was prepaid, allowing for a swift exit. This was the moment. I surged from my seat and crossed the street. He turned onto the main avenue, and I followed. This felt familiar, a ghost of winters past. Years ago, I had trailed Meir, an invisible shadow, honing the art of undetected pursuit. Johan veered towards a bus stop, placing his briefcase on the curb, searching his pockets. I quickened my pace, willing my mind to quiet, to transition from thought to action. Closing in, as he glanced up, I continued past him, a phantom in his periphery. But the notion that he didn’t recognize me, Leah’s mother, was absurd, impossible. I wasn’t just another passerby. I was the mother, his daughters my granddaughters, our bond an indelible mark. Letters sent, my existence known, my search acknowledged. Yet, his expression remained blank, devoid of recognition. To him, I was simply a woman on her way, a stranger in the urban landscape.
That night, darkness cloaked the neighborhood, and I became a nocturnal wanderer in their streets. The ice-cream shop, the pharmacy, the playground – these were the landmarks of their lives. These were the slides my granddaughters descended, the bench my daughter frequented as their guardian, the swings propelling them skyward, the sand filling their small shoes. From that merry-go-round, Lotte had once fallen, a head bump necessitating a hospital visit. Life’s unpredictable turns. The neighborhood, seemingly peaceful, could still harbor unseen dangers, nocturnal shadows. I had to trust in my daughter’s vigilance, her ability to safeguard her children.
•
The initial days of searching for my granddaughters were sleepless nights, a pendulum swing between hope and dread. Hope for connection, dread of intrusion. The violation was not lost on me. Websites revisited, records and photos scrutinized, every corner of the digital world searched, as if some overlooked detail would suddenly illuminate itself. Anticipation of discovery was constant, and then, it happened. Lotte Dappersma. Sanne Dappersma. Five and six, then six and seven, growing incrementally in the digital ether. De Lange Brug, the long bridge. Their school. The local conservatory. Lotte, guitar. Sanne, violin. Unearthing Johan’s Instagram coincided with a bout of bronchitis, confining me to bed. Their lives, in minute detail, became accessible, mine for the taking. Curtain patterns in bedrooms, the soft glow of Lotte’s reading lamp, Sanne’s whimsical handwriting adorned with green hearts. Sanne, seemingly more lighthearted, more sly than her sister, a mischievous glint in her eyes. I imagined connection with her would be easier, down the line. Neither resembled Leah, not in feature, nor expression, nor in the nascent womanhood within. Small, straight noses. Golden hair, alive, puppy-like, stirring a primal urge to touch, to inhale their scent. Yet, I maintained control. Armed with photographic possession of my granddaughters, the urge subsided. Classmates of Lotte, parents of friends – my research was thorough, calculated. Friends from the conservatory, too. Maria Koch, mother of one, posted a video from the year-end recital. Maria, small and pale, dominated the frame initially. I watched the opening seconds, paused, composed myself. An hour passed before I resumed. Then, at the edge of the screen, Lotte appeared. A fleeting glimpse, a silent performance in the song of their young lives, a melody I desperately wanted to understand, to feel, to somehow claim as my own.
